Plan C (16 page)

Ben lures me back to bed where he had just spent all of fifteen minutes triumphing over completing the Saturday
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Now he’s managed to entwine my naked body in the sheets, and he’s talking to my tummy. “I know how you love a British accent.” Now he’s using a fake one that sounds like some commentator on the BBC’s “
Planet Earth
.”

“The animal
knows
his quarry,” Ben intones, running his hands over my left breast. “And when he senses it, he
pounces.
” Ben is on top of me now. We’re both giggling, but he maintains the English accent. “A cock of these proportions is rarely glimpsed in the wild, then only in the presence of particularly succulent prey.”

“Sounds frightening,” I say.

He mouth moves to my nipples. “
Forty
percent of the world’s
entire cock
population is actually seen in
this
room.”

“Yes, dear,” I say. “Why is it men always think their own penis is the world’s biggest in the Animal Kingdom?”

“You know what I love about living with you?” says Ben, dropping the accent.

“Aside from how I bake you chocolate crème pie and color coordinate your Oxford shirts?”

“Yes aside from how you bake me chocolate crème pie and color-coordinate my Oxford shirts, and despite the fact that you forgot to shave your legs tonight…I love everything.” He nuzzles my neck and it tickles. “We’re good together.”

“Who you kidding? My organizational skills drive you crazy.”

“You’re driving me crazy right now,” he says, running a hand down the back of my calf. Then pulling back, he returns to his British accent. “The largest and
most
prickly population of
cacti
can be found on one North American woman’s legs. And if you dare to
touch it
, it can be -
deadly.
”

The phone rings. And rings and rings but we ignore it, not only because we’re into each other, but because we’re, well, into each other - my thighs wrapped around him like a vine around a eucalyptus tree. Finally the phone stops ringing – but, seconds later it begins again.

Ben pulls his lips off mine and says, “Maybe it’s the twins,” and then rolling away. “Maybe it’s an emergency.”

“Fine,” I say, grabbing the receiver before he does. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God you answered,” says the voice.

“Kitty?”

“I’m in jail!”

“What?” I say bolting straight up. “But you can’t be. You’re home recuperating from your face lift.”

“Yeah, well, somebody called the police.”

“Maybe it was my stepson,” I laugh.

“This isn’t funny Libby. You better come get me before I pull the wig off the transexual hooker who keeps hitting me up for a smoke.” Someone can be heard screaming profanities in the background. “Don’t push it, sista!” yells Kitty, pressing the receiver to her chest.

“Oh my God,” I say. “Is this like your
one
phone call?”

“Yes. Now come bail me out.”

“And you called me?”

“Yes!”

“Really? Oh Kitty, I’m touched.”

“Oh shut the fuck up and get down here!”“Wait. What about Clive?”

“Clive who? I don’t know where the fucking Brit is. Probably jerking off in a
peep
show!” says Kitty. “I’ve been trying to reach him all night.”

“You’ve been in jail all night?”

“Practically! Now get down here. I got a pimp named Leroy in the next cell asking me how much an hour to turn tricks
with
my bandages on!” She puts the receiver to her chest again. “Fucking pervert!”

A voice in the distance replies, “Suck on this, you bandaged bitch.”

“I’m on my way…” I say, hanging up and jumping out of bed.

*

Twenty minutes later I’m outside a historic, white, brick building where the precinct is busy with Officers rearranging squad cars. Walking through an entryway beneath a blue light, as officer at the door gives me the once over. The hem of my nightgown is hanging out below my Nike sports jacket. “I think you want Off Broadway theater. It’s upstairs,” he says.

“Oh no, officer, I’m here for my friend,” I explain proudly. “She’s been arrested.”

“Through that security door and take a left. Ask for Chief George.”

I toss my cell phone and keys on the conveyor belt and allow a female officer to pat me down. “Um, Officer Fernandez?” I say, looking at her name tag. “Isn’t my friend supposed to go to a hearing before bail’s set? Like on TV?”

“Usually. What’s her name?”

“Kitty – Katherine Morgan.”

The officer snickers and picks up her walkie-talkie. “Yeah, George. You’re set. Friend’s here to pick up the loud one. Yeah, the one that looks like a mummy.”

“Is my friend in some kind of trouble?” I ask, but the officer nods me forward.

A minute later I’m at a desk with two other officers and a chief named George. “Sign here and here. This time it’s only a D.A.T.”

“A what?” lifting my pen.

“Desk Appearance Ticket. Your friend Kitty Morgan has been driving them crazy in the cell block.”

“Officer, are you saying Kitty’s being difficult?”

“Pain in the ass,” says the Chief.

“Why is she in jail?” I ask.

“Because her penis was projecting clear across 72
^nd
street and into the neighbor’s window.”

“I told her to get a bigger gallery.”

Kitty approaches with the bailiff. “I heard that!” she yells. “Did you hear me?” she says not yet visible but, sounding like General Schwarzkopf screaming commands during the Persian Gulf War. The bandages from her face lift are soiled and frayed, barely covering her jaw and neck. Her eyes are bruised, as if she’s been gang raped and beaten. “I told you!” she says, “It’s not my penis! It’s a hologram goddammit! Why do you think it’s so huge?!”

“Yeah, sure, lady, whatever you say. It was 3 in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep. The pain killers weren’t working,” says Kitty lowering her voice to a mumble and murmuring to me, “They even took my Blackberry.”

I pat her hand.

“I’m not supposed to twist,” she says. “I could pop a stitch.”

“I’m here now,” I say, rubbing her matted hair.

“ Have you any idea how humiliating it is to have people see me this way?” whimpers Kitty.

“Lady, calm down,” says Chief George, removing her cuffs. “You’re lucky we didn’t send you to the fourth floor.”

“You mean where the off-Broadway theatre is?” I ask proudly.

The officer shoots me a look.

“What’s she charged with, Chief?” I ask.

“Nothing now. But she was down for two counts of indecent exposure.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” says Kitty, rearranging a piece of white gauze. “I know a thing or two about the law. My father was arrested every time he was on tour. My penis might get cited for public lewdness. But, it was a
flaccid
penis. It has to be
erect
for indecent exposure,” she says, folding her arms firmly.

“I don’t even want to know why your father was arrested,” I say.

The officer reads from a book. “According to Penal code 245.01…”

“Oh it’s a
Penal
Code alright!” says Kitty.

“I don’t think your penis
rises
to the level of indecent exposure,” says the Chief snickering. “Your bigger problem is Penal Code 205.30 - Resisting arrest.”

“Kitty! You resisted arrest?” I ask.

“I did not! I learned from my father, Screamin’ J Pepper Morgan,
never
to resist arrest,” says Kitty. She rearranges her dignity. “I went calmly.”

“Listen, lady,” says the officer. Open your mouth again and you’ll be doing community service up in Washington Heights. I’ll put you on kids’
daycare
detail.”

“Don’t. You. Dare,” says Kitty.

“Wait, did you say your father was Screamin’ J Pepper?” says Chief George.

“Yes,” says Kitty, sheepishly.

“Screamin’ J Pepper?” he repeats in awe.

“Yes.”

“Loved Pepper’s
Pickled Pepper
double album.”

“I suppose,” she softens. “But it wasn’t as good as
Holy Jalapeno
,” says Kitty. “That went platinum in two weeks.”

Another officer grabs my arm and confides, “You may want to get her some therapy.”

“Yes, officer, But it’s been a tough week. She’s on… medication.”

“She was mounting a giant penis in her window.”

“Oh,” I say, concerned.

“It’s my gallery!” says Kitty. “I mount things!”

“You mount your art work?” says the officer.

“Oh Christ, here we go again,” says Chief George.

“I told you already,” says Kitty. “I was holding onto the hologram because I was trying to reposition it for better penetration and then it shot straight out the window and….oh never mind.”

Thank you for your patience officers,” I say, taking Kitty by the arm and leading her out of the precinct. I turn back. “Oh, and we’ll drop off some autographed Screamin’ J 8 x 10s tomorrow.”

I know I look at if I’m in the middle of a biological war zone, but don’t let the mouth and nose mask fool you. I’m just dusting the cobwebs and dust mites off Ben’s bookshelves.

It’s been twenty years – if anybody’s counting - since anyone’s done this job, and there are four-thousand-plus books in Ben’s office. Each time I pull a hardcover from the shelf, my eyes tear up more than they did at my daughter’s high school graduation. My frustrated inner librarian urges me to carry on. I’m not just dusting, oh no – I’m alphabetizing the books within categories: biography, fiction, non-fiction. Half of these books were housed in Ben’s bedroom, the bedroom we now sleep in. No wonder he and his ex never had sex…they were too busy reading! The year I moved in, I carted the books downstairs by the armload. It’s time to clean up the good ones and throw some others in the trash.

Whenever Ben isn’t looking I always toss away the old, ratty paperbacks. Who keeps paperbacks anyway? You can’t
give
them away, not even to the woman across the street who owns the thrift shop – the one who stands on her stoop every morning feeding the pigeons.

I’m not some kind of a monster, honestly, throwing away his books. I’ve even offered to replace some of his favorites - like
To the Finland Station
, by Edmund Wilson or
Speak, Memory
by Vladimir Nabokov - with fresh hardcover editions. It was when he said “no” to my buying him new ones that I realized he wasn’t into the books at all. He’s just into being a packrat. You can’t even find his desk. I think I once caught a glimpse of mahogany peeking out from beneath years of collected paperwork. But that’s all changed. Since I moved in, now it smells of freshly dusted lemon Pledge.

Sliding the stepladder to the next section, I pull a book off the shelf and inspect it. It’s talking to me, and I can hear it begging to be thrown out. It’s ready for death row – awaiting lethal injection to the nearby trash bin. I read the cover:
The Aspects of the
Novel
, by E.M. Forster. I flip it over. Attached to its stained back is a sticky note that says, “Don’t do it, Libby. It’s the greatest 20
^th
century critical essay on the novel.” I laugh to myself, wipe it off and put it back.

In Ben’s old marriage, the “I do” one with Rosemary, the clutter in the house was physical. With me, the house is immaculate: the cutter is emotional. About Rosemary. She allowed no pocket for passion, and now our passion is being suffocated by her neediness.

The phone rings. I climb off the stepstool and answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom, can you send me some money?”

“Well, hello, Scarlett, I’m
very
well, darling, and how are you, honey?”

“Fine,” she says. “How’s my sister?”

“Madeline? She’s fine,” I say. Maybe she should ask her
sister
for the money.

“What’s she up to?”

“Your sister?” I ask. “She’s on a boat cruise on the Hudson with Ludacris.”

“The singer? What kind of college
is
this? How come I didn’t go there?”

“Because you didn’t want to be an environmentalist. But that’s okay. Business major was a good option afterall. I never saw you as a psychologist. Look how it’s paid off.”

“Two promotions in one year, Mommy.” She always says “Mommy” whenever she’s angling for a favor.

“You can go back for your law degree next year,” I say. “We talked about that.”

“I know,” she says, already bored with this conversation and anxious to get to the money point of this call.

“Whatcha up to?” I ask her.

“Nothing. I need a haircut and an oil change.”

“Oh…”

“How’s Ben?”

“He’s fine,” I say. Still no asking how I am. Me, The Bank of Mom. “Ben literally just landed from China. He was in a performance and then gave a lecture on ‘Eastern Tonality in Early Twentieth Century Western Music.’”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s nice. But he’ll be home any minute. I’m making him his favorite Greek dish, Moussaka. Wish you were here…”

“Grandma’s recipe? I do, too.”

“Any chance you might come visit soon? I’ll send you a train ticket….”

“Yeah, maybe. Work’s kinda crazy, but….” Her tone implying “no.”

“Well, we’ll be together for Thanksgiving….” My tone telling her I’m grateful for what I can get. I’ve never been one of those parents who pressure a kid to visit. If they want to, they will. And they’re more likely to, if you don’t pressure.

“So…” she says, trailing off again.

“How much do you need?”

“Just a hundred bucks would be great. I have like no spending cash,” she says. “All I do is work and pay bills.”

Welcome to real life, kid, is what I want to tell her, but I don’t. She’s still too young and hopeful for me to destroy her dreams with the hard truths about life. “Well, honey, I know the cost of living has gone up so high, but have you considered maybe doing a waitress shift one night a week? Like you did in college? I know we talked about this before. You’re calling me every month for money. I know you love to hear this, but when I was your age….” She’s not listening. So I begin again, “When I was your age, we had to walk five miles to get high and have sex.”